


about as subtle as an earthquake

by Anemoi



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 08:17:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4780298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/pseuds/Anemoi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas and Miro through the years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	about as subtle as an earthquake

**Author's Note:**

> massive thanks to [raumdeuter](http://archiveofourown.org/users/raumdeuter/pseuds/raumdeuter) for...making me write it. and virtual hand holding. and [Imkerin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Imkerin/works), for basically making it readable. and ofc, [saltstreets](http://archiveofourown.org/users/saltstreets), cos you're a babe. I love you all. stop making me Feel Things over germans.

Everyone's minds are focused on Ballack's injury, a constant uneasy buzz among the team members that makes Miro uncomfortable. He doesn't even hear the first part of the sentence, only “- and Müller will get 13,” as Löw passes him. Miro looks up as Löw walks away with his phone pressed to his ear, still muttering intently to whoever was on the other line.

Thomas Müller. Miro tries to recall what little he's seen of him, only remembers vaguely an incident revolving around a bike and tousled hair, a shy smirk and too long gangly limbs. Thomas Müller. People must be comparing him to Gerd already.

The world cup coming up was going to be interesting, their captain's place taken by an almost-teenager who was talented, yes, but still so... young.

Miro shakes his head and tries to focus on tying his laces.

  


-

  


Miro finds out who Thomas is on the pitch. Their first training back together, and Miro is shocked at the way those flailing limbs could coalesce into something as orderly as this- the ball tracing a smooth curve into the back of the net. Thomas runs around yelling like a kid - _he is a kid,_ Miro thinks, looking at the weak spring sunshine on Thomas, glinting at the flecks of gold in his unruly brown hair, picking out the straight stripes and the eagle on his chest.

   That thought sticks in his head, later, so that he looks to Thomas when he makes his debut in the Allianz. Thomas is smiling, tipping his head up at the stands, but when he looks back down his face is set. _Not a kid,_ Miro corrects, but that’s not it, either. Thomas Müller, mystery man.

  


-

  


They talk, as Thomas talks to anyone who’ll listen and many who won’t, but it never goes anywhere beyond that. All he has to do is look up occasionally and make eye contact as Thomas talks about anything from the weather to Philipp’s rabbits. Miro hadn’t thought he was giving Thomas the wrong idea until-

     “So.”

     Miro looks up from shaking out his jersey. Thomas stares down at him, his hands on his hips; Miro raises an eyebrow, waiting for him to speak.

“You must think I'm too young for this, don't you? That's why you don't like me?”

Miro tilts his head slightly, trying to work out why Thomas' tone carries a mix of defiance and cheek. “Why do you think that?”

Thomas plops down on the bench next to him and starts to unlace his boots. “Don't you feel threatened? Because I'm young, and I'm good at being a forward.”

    If anyone else had said it, Miro would be inclined to stop and inform them very gently but seriously of the depths of their ego issues, but Thomas' tone had been matter of fact and completely devoid of anything resembling boasting.

    “I don't not like you,” Miro says, then stops, trying to rework the sentence better in his head, except Thomas is already plowing on:

     “But that’s not what I want,” he says, balling up his socks and stacking his shin guards. He turns to Miro, not smiling, says: “I want us to work together. I want you to trust me.”

Miro doesn't say anything at all for a moment. Then, “Alright.”

Thomas' smile is blinding up close. His incisor teeth stick out a bit, Miro notices, and his eyes are very blue. He looks young and so open that Miro's heart already hurts a little, as if in foreboding.  

  


-

  


It happens first in South Africa, and it happens after a win.

   “So. Are you angry?” Thomas says. He's stopped soaping himself and all the suds have been washed down the drain. Miro blinks.

   “I mean I know they say I'm probably going to win the golden boot this year but I really hope we win the cup you know? That’s what I want most of all. Fuck the other shit. And, -” Thomas makes an expansive hand gesture, obviously forgetting the fact that the shower is on, and flicks water in Miro's eyes. “Oh! Damn. Sorry.”

   Miro tries not to shake his head in disbelief. Against his will, he feels a smile tugging up the corner of his mouth. Thomas' eyes are wide; he looks like he’s also holding back a grin, mouth a little open. The water’s still running, flowing down the smooth gulley of Thomas' shoulders and chest, dripping off his eyelashes.

  Miro reaches out with one hand and cups Thomas' face, draws him closer. He can feel Thomas tremble under his fingers, and he presses Thomas against the wall with his palm flat in the middle of his chest. He reaches around him to turn off the water. Everything sounds muffled when the water stops running, only the steady dripping of a tap someone forgot to close tightly in the background. Thomas' eyes are wide, his hands on either side of the shower walls. Miro sinks to his knees. The tiles are cold, but Thomas' hips are warm under his hands as he shudders and leans against the wall, his eyes sliding shut and his mouth falling open.

_Oh_ , Miro thinks. _Here’s one way to stop Thomas talking._

  


-

  


The second time it’s still in South Africa, and it happens after they lose.

Miro doesn’t say much after they get back to the hotel, but then again, no one does. They have to start packing soon.

 But Thomas doesn’t. He knocks on Miro’s door and Miro lets him in, head bowed. Thomas feels grateful for that, at least; he hadn’t known whether Miro would. He sits down on the narrow wall space between the closet and the door, crosses his legs. Miro’s folding his shirts carefully into his suitcase.

   Thomas sits on the floor and tips his head back against the wall. After a while, Miro puts down his shirt and gives up with a soft exhale. Thomas gets up and moves to sit against the bed instead. They sit for a long, long time, the evening shadows lengthening in the room before Thomas feels Miro's hand tangle in his hair, pulling at the strands. He reaches up, tugs on Miro's hands, and crawls on to the bed awkwardly. His limbs feel too long, twining around Miro's. His hands too clumsy, trying to tug off Miro's shirt. Miro doesn't speak, only looks at him with downcast eyes, hands warm against Thomas’ sides.

   They don't do much but lie there, tangled up together with no space between them. The shadows in the corner of the room turn a darker shade of blue, and the halls outside fill with people's voices briefly, before quietening again.

   Thomas' eyes feel heavy, his limbs loose as Miro runs his hands down his back in rhythm. Thomas wonders if this is what Miro does to Luan and Noah when they can't sleep. The thought is strange, pushes him back towards wakefulness.

“Miro...you can talk to me, you know.”

Miro sighs. “I was wondering when you were going to start talking.”

“I thought you wanted to be quiet together!” Thomas says, indignant.

Miro presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, lips curved. “It's strange when you don't speak.”

“I can keep quiet, you know,” Thomas says. “And I'm not a child.”

Miro looks at him, considering. “No. you're not.” He tugs Thomas' head back on to his chest. “But some things I can't say. You'll get to know them yourself, I think. Someday.”

Thomas wonders what he’s referring to. Growing old? Finding it difficult to run for 90 minutes? Living with the regret of never winning a world cup? People didn’t win world cups all the time. Whichever it is, Thomas wants to shield him from it, just a little longer. It doesn’t feel like enough. Miro doesn't smile enough.

 “4 more years,” he says instead, then kisses Miro properly so he can't come up with some other excuse, or worse, announce his retirement. He breaks off, Miro sighing in to his mouth, says, “Actually no, the Euros are in two years-”

  


Miro laughs, then lets his hand trail down the curve of Thomas' hip. “Oh Thomas, Thomas,” he says, a smile in his voice, and Thomas buries his head in the hollow of Miro's throat.  

  


-

  


 When Miro leaves Bayern, Thomas gets a postcard from Rome. _It’s very beautiful here, Thomas._

 Thomas doesn’t visit, because the Basilica might be beautiful but not to him, not then. It’s a city that has Miro in it, that’s all. Thomas sits in the Allianz locker room, willing the empty space away.

  At the next break he gets Miro alone and it’s as though the distance ( _600 miles is not so far_ ) vanishes in between all the longing. Thomas closes his eyes and thinks about chaos, compressed, redirected. Simple as this- Miro’s fine boned, slender hands, and the way he breathes out Thomas’ name in the quiet between them.  

  


-

  


     

       Germany is in the semifinals of the Euros and Miroslav Klose has scored. Miro opens the door and Thomas is leaning against the door jamb, eyebrows raised. Miro's face is carefully blank, and he steps back a little, as if to take in all of Thomas' lanky frame. Then he steps up close and his hands are warm on Thomas' sides. Thomas is mildly impressed that Miro didn't even bother looking down both sides of the hallway.

     “This is a bad habit,” Miro whispers into the shell of Thomas' ear. Thomas throws his head back and laughs, a loud and completely exaggerated laugh, even though on the inside he's fucking shaking. Thomas is trembling like a plateful of jello. No one’s around to hear it.

     “Yes,” he says back, unable to stop himself from grinning. Then he leans forward and presses his mouth to Miro's, whole body stretched taut and feeling like he’s about to snap. Miro lets him lick his mouth open and tugs Thomas in with both hands.

     Thomas stumbles halfway across the room and trips them both to the floor. Miro buries his face in Thomas' stomach, not even raising his head to breathe between hysterical silent chuckles. After an infinity of time, Thomas gently pats Miro on the head and complains loudly about the state of Miro's floor (even though he'd tripped over Miro's trainers, laid out a couple feet from his bed).

Thomas drags Miro up, and they stay in each other's arms, and Miro sighs when Thomas straddles him and awkwardly tugs off his shirt. Miro swipes his thumbs across the grooves of Thomas' hips, and Thomas leans down, kisses him dark and sweet and slow.

   They don't have to rush at all.  

  


-

  


   

   When they crash out of the semifinals and Thomas goes to Miro’s room it feels like a ritual, almost. Thomas is angry but when he sees Miro, Miro’s set face and downturned eyes, the anger leaks out of him until he’s just helpless. The seasons keep turning but the result remains the same. Thomas feels like the oldest 23 year old on the planet.

  “I’ll come visit you in Rome,” Thomas says, even though it’s a promise he doesn’t want to keep, and Miro tugs him in closer.  

  


-

  


Thomas doesn’t visit. Miro doesn’t say anything either. Two years pass with long phone calls and international breaks, two years, and Miro doesn’t ask. Rome is beautiful, and Thomas doesn’t want to see it.

    

  


 Brazil, and they’re in the group stages against Ghana. Miro’s bent over Thomas with a hand against his chest and he can feel Thomas' heart pounding. Thomas raises a bloody hand and he's smiling – Miro thinks, dazed, why is he smiling – he asks stupidly: “Are you concussed? Thomas?” and Thomas just stares at him, letting the blood run down his arm.

  “You’re alright,” he tells Thomas, who only nods. There are red handprints against the white of Miro’s jersey.

   Thomas turns out alright, of course, even though the amount of blood had been alarming. They tied, in the end, but the goal was to advance out of group stages. They still have it. Thomas sits through stitches with only mild complaining, knee bouncing up and down, unable to stay still.

“Are you staying?” Thomas says, propped up on pillows. His face looks very young. He’s no longer even remotely a kid, but Miro still remembers his face in spring sunlight.

 “Yes,” Miro says.

  


-

  


They win the world cup. Thomas can’t remember exactly what he thought, the world blurring away in gold confetti, the trophy heavier than he had imagined. The birth of a new star- they collapse in dust and blood and sweat, and are reborn.

    _I bled for this._ Thomas thinks, watching Miro raise the trophy. He’s smiling very wide and in this light there are no wrinkles on the corners of his eyes. _I bled for this,_ but he’s thinking of the quiet hotel rooms and the silent despair of time running out.

  So they’ve won in the end, after all. They’ve won- Manu shoves the trophy at him, yelling, and Thomas goes forward for his turn- it all.

  


-

  


Miro goes back to his hotel room after taking Sylwia and the kids back to theirs. It's late. Sylwia looks at him with understanding, presses a kiss softly to his jaw and bids him farewell with shining eyes.

It doesn’t feel quite real. Not yet. His hands don’t tremble when he inserts the keycard and pulls it out. He clicks on the light and-

Thomas waves from the bed. He has his other arm over his head, his hand limp.

  “Miro...turn off the lights. It fucking hurts.”

Miro blinks. He turns off the main lights in the room, and turns on a soft desk lamp instead. Thomas rolls over and sits up, grinning.

“How long have you been here?” Miro asks, sitting down on the bed and tugging his shoes off. Thomas crawls over and puts his head in Miro's lap.

“Not long. I just came in. I think I threw up on someone.”

Miro stifles a chuckle. He runs his hand through Thomas' hair, tugging at the end of his tufts. Thomas smirks at him, eyes still closed.

“I can't believe it happened.”

Thomas cracks an eye open and says, “What?”

     “We won,” Miro says. Just saying it out loud brings a helpless smile to his face. Thomas is grinning, propping himself up on an elbow. He kisses Miro, quick and on the corner of his mouth. Miro sighs, and buries his face in the space between Thomas' neck and shoulder, breathing him in.

     There's no urgency in what they do. There's just a sense of rightness when Thomas gets up and holds out a hand for Miro to take. Thomas trips over a streamer lying on the floor and they both laugh, but then Thomas backs Miro up against the cool tiles, and kisses him, doesn’t stop this time till Miro's clutching him with desperation. Thomas' face is as serious as Miro's ever seen it, as he hooks two fingers under Miro's trousers and tugs them down. He looks up and Miro remembers to take a breath. Thomas smiles, his lopsided boyish grin, says “Congratulations, old man.”

     Miro laughs, burying a hand in Thomas’ hair.

  


-

  


“So, are you going to retire?” Thomas says into his ear afterwards, lying in bed with the lights off. It’s actually starting to get light out, a warm blue dawn behind the curtains.

“Yes, I suppose I will,” Miro says, because Thomas deserves the truth, and he's won everything he set out to win. Now all that is left is to keep playing until he can't.

“You know...you're not that old. Maybe till Berlin-” Thomas says, shifting closer.  

Miro kisses him to soften the words he doesn’t say. Instead he says, keeping his voice serious, “Thomas, I am an old man, and I deserve-”

 Thomas makes an outraged sound and Miro’s voice wavers as he starts laughing.

 They’re quiet for a bit, and then Thomas says, “Come back to Munich. We can play golf. You can ride my horses.”

Miro chuckles. “Your horses.”

Thomas arches an eyebrow. “Yeah, or you can ride-”

Miro groans and claps a hand over his mouth, still laughing. “Why don’t you visit Rome?”

“Rome?”

“It's beautiful, Thomas.”

Thomas thinks, _you're beautiful,_ inanely. He fumbles through the sheets till he finds Miro's hand.

“Alright,” he says. “I will.” 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading <3


End file.
